She was shocked to see it at that point. She had been so sure that it wasn’t coming that she had been mentally counting the months until she would be showing and would have to be out of society. She had been planning the kind of crib she wanted made for the baby, planning out a set of small baby clothes to dress her tiny child in.
But there was no child.
There was, quite simply, nothing tying her to Fitzwilliam Darcy at all.
She wanted to tell Jane the news, but she had no chance to be alone with her sister that morning. There were servants about, helping her sister get ready, and being called away constantly by their mother, who seemed more worried about the way she would look at the wedding than her own daughter.
Jane was beautiful in her dress. She wore her hair twisted around her head so that it nearly resembled a crown, and Elizabeth had never seen her so radiant.
The wedding was lovely too. She watched Mr. Bingley’s face as Jane walked down the aisle, how he was eager and awed by her sister. He never took his eyes off her throughout the vows. He gazed at her with unabashed adoration.
Elizabeth tried to remember how Mr. Darcy had looked at her during their wedding, but she could not remember his looking at her at all. However, she hadn’t spent much time looking at him either.
However, she had seen the same look in Mr. Darcy’s eyes, had seen it when they were making love in the east wing, when the lightning illuminated his face.
He loves me, she thought.
Yes, but if he loved her, why had he not said it? When she told him her feelings, he simply argued with her about it.
Before, when there was a possibility of a babe, there was a chance that this decision would be made for her. She would be forced to remain married to him. Now, however, she would have to decide. She did not want the responsibility.
She did not know how to decide.
It was head versus her heart, and she did not know which would win out.
Somehow, at the wedding breakfast, she ended up seated next to Miss Caroline Bingley, and somehow, Miss Bingley was in a talkative mood.
“How does Mr. Darcy?” said Miss Bingley.
“Oh, he is well enough,” said Elizabeth.
“I thought he must be ill,” said Miss Bingley. “The Mr. Darcy that I knew would never have missed my brother’s wedding. He is much changed, however.”
“I suppose so,” Elizabeth allowed.
“Not that I concern myself with Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley. “Indeed, I never think of him anymore. He is quite definitely the furthest thing from my thoughts at practically all times.”
Elizabeth only nodded. She had forgotten that Miss Bingley used to carry a torch for Mr. Darcy.
“At one time, of course, there was much to recommend him, but none of that is true anymore. Why, I remember how he was always so shy and quiet. People thought him arrogant, but it was often that he simply did not feel comfortable in the company of people he did not know very well. I always felt sorry for him and would do my best to try and draw him out when I could. But then, after he was scarred and hurt, nothing could still his tongue. The awful things he said! Of course, I suppose you know. You are married to him. You must hear him say horrible things all the time.”
Elizabeth thought of Mr. Darcy’s teeth bared, his eyes flashing. I will have nothing of his in my house. She inclined her head. “I would not speak ill of my husband when he is not here to defend himself.”
“Oh, well would he defend himself?” said Miss Bingley. “The Mr. Darcy I knew was not likely to speak in his own defense. He would have thought that uncouth. He was the very picture of civility, you know. And his sister, the sweet Miss Darcy? Oh, how he loved her. When he would speak of her, something would come over him. You could see how much he cared for her, how he would do anything for her. And then she was lost, and it turned him inside out. Now, he’s just a shell of himself.”
Elizabeth didn’t say anything.
“It’s very sad,” continued Miss Bingley. “You do have my sympathies, Mrs. Darcy. I think it all must be very difficult for you. That’s why I wouldn’t trade places with you for all the gold in England.”
“Well, I don’t believe anyone has asked you to trade places with me.”
“Of course not, but it’s only that if I imagine your position, I feel as though I have been spared a difficult fate. You may not know this, but at one time, I think it was quite likely that Mr. Darcy might have asked for my hand. I mean, before the accident, when his face was lovely to look on.”
“I cannot say that I think the scars have spoiled his looks,” Elizabeth muttered.
“Oh, but you don’t know what he looked like before,” said Miss Bingley. “You may have married him, but you didn’t marry the real him. He’s nothing but a pale shadow of the man he was. You can’t imagine what sort of man he was, back when I…” She shook her head. “Well, anyway, there’s no point in dwelling on the past, is there?”
“Indeed, it seems to me that you are the one who seems to continue harping on it.”
“Harping?” Miss Bingley drew herself up. “Now, how is that fair? I am merely expressing my sympathy for you. I am extending a bit of Christian charity, and you are throwing it in my face. Perhaps being around Mr. Darcy’s bad temper has rubbed off on you.”
Elizabeth plastered a smile on her face and changed the subject. “Wasn’t it sweet to see the way your brother could not take his eyes off my sister? I think they will be very happy together, don’t you?”
Miss Bingley pursed her lips. “Yes, my brother is rather taken with Miss Bennet, I must say.”
“With Mrs. Bingley,” Elizabeth corrected, smiling wider.
“Well, I hope they suit,” said Miss Bingley. “I can’t think of anything worse than a marriage between people who don’t seem to like each other. Your parents aren’t that way, are they?”
Elizabeth glared at her.
It was Miss Bingley’s turn to smile, too sweetly.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Well, out of my own Christian charity, Miss Bingley, I do hope that you find a husband soon. How many Seasons have you been out in society, after all?”
Miss Bingley let out a forced laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Mrs. Darcy, though I thank you deeply for your concern.”
“Mmm,” said Elizabeth. “And I thank you as well.”
* * *
Days passed, and Elizabeth found life at her family’s home rather trying. She did not know how she had borne living with her mother’s shrill voice for all these years. Jane was gone with her new husband, of course, and it left Elizabeth with only her younger sisters and her parents.
Her father was nowhere to be found, as per usual, and her mother turned every little thing into an incident, even the loss of an embroidery needle, for which everyone in the house—the servants and the sisters—spent an entire morning searching every nook and cranny.
Elizabeth retreated into the corner of the sitting room with a book, and she longed for the quiet of Pemberley.
Was it folly if she chose being with Mr. Darcy simply to escape this chaos?
He had promised her that he would give her the means to escape on her own, of course, so she should not allow that to factor into her decision.
She tried to examine whether she missed the man himself or not, and she found that she did.
The problem, she thought, was that it was impossible to reason oneself in or out of love. Love happened, and it wasn’t rational or ordered. It was messy and confusing. It descended upon a person, and then that person was at its mercy.
But she supposed that she could accept that. It was only that she rather blamed herself for having fallen in love with Mr. Darcy at all, for she didn’t feel he deserved her love. She could not understand why she would love a man such as him. It didn’t make sense, and it made her feel out of control.
Yes, that was precisely the sticking point.
Mr. Darcy had forced her to marry him. He had taken away her choice.
Now, it seemed as if she had been robbed of her choice again, by the feelings that she had developed.
She felt as though she were the plaything of fate, like something in one of those awful Greek tragedies.
In those sorts of stories, no matter what a person did, he couldn’t escape his fate. The more he tried to get free, the more he was enmeshed in it.
She had a choice. Leave Mr. Darcy behind and start her own story or go back to him.
The choice should free her. Now, she had the opportunity to decide, the whole world spread out in front of her, nothing but possibilities.
But there was no freedom at all in it, because she couldn’t chose. The choice plagued her, a demon insect that needled her.
And then, nearly a week after the wedding, she received a letter from Mrs. Peters at Pemberley.
The housekeeper wrote that Mr. Darcy had come home from his business terribly ill, in a raving fever, and that the doctor was not sure if he would recover. Mrs. Peters wrote that Mr. Darcy sometimes called for her in his sleep.
In that moment, suddenly everything was clear.
It wasn’t that she needed to choose. That was not what plagued her. What plagued her was that she had already decided, had known it for some time. There had been no question about whether or not she would go back to Mr. Darcy. Of course she would. She loved him, after all.
Perhaps it was unforgivable, and perhaps she was stupid. Other people might not understand her choice, but she had to be true to herself, and this was what she knew in her heart to be right. Perhaps, up until now, she had been too ruled by everyone else’s opinions—Mr. Darcy’s, Jane’s, her father’s. But it wasn’t their life or their decision. This was hers, and she trusted her own feelings.
She had to go to him now, and nurse him back to health.
She stuffed the letter into her pocket and went upstairs to her room. She began to pack.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Lizzy?” came her father’s voice from the doorway to the bedchamber.
She looked up, a pale blue evening dress in one hand. “Papa? What are you doing here?” She rarely saw her father prowling about in this part of the house during the day.
“You are leaving, then?” said her father. “I was told you received a letter, and now I find you here, packing your own clothes.”
“I did not want to take the servants away from their tasks,” said Elizabeth. “I can manage it myself.”
“He has summoned you back, then?”
“No, he is ill. It was the housekeeper who wrote, telling me that he is in need of me.”
Her father drew in a deep breath. “Listen, Lizzy, I feel wretched. I keep thinking of what happened, and I think that I didn’t fight hard enough to convince you not to marry that man. I knew it wouldn’t be good for you, and I wanted to stop it, but I’m afraid there is a defect within me somewhere, and I am always taking the easier path. I want to fight, I do, but I crumple under pressure. I should not have crumpled this time.”
“Papa, it is all right.” She smiled at her father. “He loves me.”
“If he loved you, he would have asked you to marry him instead of taking away your choice. There is precious little a woman has in this world, but she is always able to deny a suitor. If he had asked you, what would you have said?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I may have refused him. But I may not have. You must see that he was a rather better alternative to Collins.”
“Yes, but my Lizzy, my wild and headstrong girl, you have never been one to compromise.”
“I know,” she said. “I am stubborn.” She fingered the edge of her dress and then she set it on the bed. “He offered to let me go, you know. He said that he would give me an annulment, and a hefty settlement besides, and that I could be a free and wealthy woman.”
“And yet you return to him?”
“Well, he is very ill, Papa. I suppose there is some chance of his not recovering, and then how could that all be arranged, but that is not why I go. The truth is, when I thought of the prospect of his dying, it hurt me so deeply that I knew…” She sighed, her eyes stinging a bit. “I love him. I cannot bear the thought of losing him.”
“Truly?” Her father searched her expression.
“Truly.”
Her father drew back slowly. “Well, I must admit, that’s not what I expected to hear from you. But perhaps I ought to have suspected something when you were willing to wed him at all. I have long known that my Lizzy is not one to do anything she does not wish to do.”
Elizabeth laughed a little. “Well, I suppose you are right in that.”
“It’s only that I don’t understand how you’ve grown up so quickly. A married woman.” He shook his head. “I remember when you would run to me and I would catch you up in my arms.” He sighed. Then he started out of the room. “All right, then, well I suppose I’ll go and sent for a servant to help you pack. You’ll need it.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
He pointed at her. “I still don’t like him.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “Noted.”
“But… perhaps he is a good man who made a mistake.”
A great many mistakes, she thought, but she only nodded. “Yes.”
* * *
Two days’ journey went slowly under gray skies. Elizabeth was worried that it would snow, because the sky seemed to threaten it, and she knew that a snowstorm might keep her in an inn for days. She worried about what might happen to Mr. Darcy in that time.
But finally, she arrived, and the carriage pulled up to the great house on the hill. Pemberley was as shrouded in mists as ever and the trees seemed even darker and more sinister than they ever had. She disembarked from the carriage to be met by the staff, who had assembled to see her.
“Where is he?” said Elizabeth. “I must go to him at once.”
“That’s just it, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mrs. Peters. “We received your letter only today, and I know not of what you wrote. I have not written to you, mum. Mr. Darcy is not ill. Indeed, he is not here. He is still away on business in the north.”
Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “You did not send a letter to me?”
“No,” said Mrs. Peters.
“But then, how…?” This was all very strange.
“Shall we get you inside, mum? We have prepared a lovely dinner for you. It will be ready in only a few hours.”
Elizabeth let herself be led into the house, but when the footmen brought in her trunk, she stopped them so that she could go through it and find the letter that Mrs. Peters had sent. She handed it to her.
Mrs. Peters looked it over. “What is this?”
“Is that not your signature?” Elizabeth pointed.
“This is not my hand,” said Mrs. Peters. “I do not form my letters in this way.”
Elizabeth snatched it back. “I suppose I have not ever seen your handwriting.” She gazed at the letter. “Who wrote this?”
“Well, I must say that the handwriting looks a bit familiar, but I don’t know if I can place it,” said Mrs. Peters, tapping her chin. “One of the children’s tutors, perhaps? But that doesn’t make sense. None of them are here anymore, and haven’t been for years.”
“You recognize it,” murmured Elizabeth, turning the letter over in her hands as if some clue was to be found on the back of it. “But then…” She sighed. “Well, have you heard from Mr. Darcy? He is well?”
“As near as we know, mum,” said Mrs. Peters. “He took Mr. Jones with him, and Mr. Jones will keep us apprised if anything were amiss.” Mr. Jones was the valet. “Wouldn’t you like to go to your room for a bit, then?”
Elizabeth nodded absently, pulling off her traveling gloves. Then she thought she caught sight of movement through one of the doorways to the left. She started in that direction. It was probably one of the servants cleaning. She wasn’t sure why she needed to inspect it, but something about all of this was troubling her.
“Mrs. Darcy, where are y
ou going?” said Mrs. Peters, rushing after her.
“Who is in that drawing room?” Elizabeth pointed.
“Why, no one,” said Mrs. Peters.
Someone stepped through the doorway. He was tall with golden, curly hair and twinkling blue eyes. He had an insouciant grin on his face, as if he’d just heard a very amusing jest.
“Georgie!” said Mrs. Peters. “You were supposed to stay out of sight. You promised.”
“Georgie?” said Elizabeth slowly. Her eyes widened. “Mr. Wickham!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The blond man laughed. “I see my fame precedes me. But I’m afraid I do not know you.”
“This is the mistress of the house, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mrs. Peters.
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Wickham, bowing. “So nice to make your acquaintance. You are lovely, may I say?”
Mrs. Peters turned to Elizabeth. “I’m sorry. Georgie dropped by out of nowhere, and with the master away, well…”
Elizabeth gave Mrs. Peters a shrewd look. “Your master did not wish to have this man’s dog about, and yet you invite him into the drawing room?”
“Well, the master is always in a temper,” said Mrs. Peters. “They were boys together, weren’t they? And we all did love Georgie. I’m sure Mr. Darcy’s being overly harsh.”
Elizabeth eyed Mr. Wickham. “I assure you, he is not. I suppose Mr. Darcy didn’t tell you what Mr. Wickham did to Miss Darcy? If he had, you would never have let him across the threshold.”
Mr. Wickham winked at Elizabeth. “Fitzie exaggerates. Always has. It’s a fault.”
“Exaggerates?” said Elizabeth.
Mr. Wickham turned smiling eyes on Mrs. Peters. “Be a dear, would you? Bring us some refreshment? Mrs. Darcy must be famished after her long journey.”
“Oh, yes, what am I thinking?” Mrs. Peters smiled. “I’ll see to it myself. Do you still like those honeycakes, Georgie?”
“Love them,” said Wickham.
Mrs. Peters scurried off.
Elizabeth turned to see if any of the servants were nearby, but the two footmen had taken her trunk up the stairs, and there was no one.
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